


Mercury Dreams

by stapling_pages



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1827070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stapling_pages/pseuds/stapling_pages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A trapped soul sought to be more than just a memory, only to find himself a piece on the chessboard trapped between two sides. Fortunately, the rules in this game are what you make them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercury Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> THIS WILL NOT BE CONTINUED!
> 
> At least, not by me. Its just that it has been sitting on my flash-drive for I don't know how long and... yeah. This was supposed to be a Tom Riddle vs. Voldemort thing.

With detached interest, Tom Marvolo Riddle watched as Harry Potter stumbled away from the carcass of the once great serpent. One of the basilisk’s fangs was lodged into the boy’s arm, and Tom could see the venom seeping into his body, highlighting the second year’s veins in a smoky gray. Finally, Potter staggered into a wall and slid down it. His eyes were slowly becoming more and more glazed, while his pupils were blown wide, leaving tiny slivers of bottle-green ringed around them.

Tom smiled darkly at the dying boy. It wouldn’t be long now; Potter would die and his magic would join Ginny’s, leeched away so that he could live again. Perhaps he would make sure that history remembered them as the ones who inadvertently aided the return of the Dark Lord Voldemort.

“What does it feel like? To know that you’re dying…” he asked, still smiling. Tom continued in a chatty tone, “Basilisk venom, for all its potency, is rather slow acting so you will suffer for a great deal longer, I’d imagine.” Potter somehow found the strength to glare at him.

“I won’t let you win.” The words, no doubt spoken in blind Gryffindor optimism, were meant to make Tom worry but instead made his smile widen.

“Oh? And how will you manage that?”

Desperation filled the boy’s face, and he wrenched the fang from his arm. Tom laughed softly as he wondered what the dying boy hoped to achieve by doing that. There was already more than enough venom in his system to kill several dozen adults, removing its source wouldn’t help him any. Potter’s head lolled heavily as he looked around him with gazed eyes, eventually spotting the diary. It lay innocently between the dying boy and Ginny, splayed open with its unraveling place-marker tucked close to the inner spine of the book.

The boy pulled it closer. Shaking from the effort, the boy lifted his arm and prepared to strike. Tom felt his eyes widen in horrible realization.

“No!” he cried.

Tom tried to throw himself forward to stop Potter; tired to reach out with the frustratingly limited amount of magic at his disposal and crush the basilisk fang or the hand holding it  _or Potter’s throat!_ but it was too little too late. The magic he’d stolen from foolish little Ginny faltered, and the fang pierced through the pages of his diary, flooding it with lethal acidic venom.

The effect was instantaneous.

His body convulsed in violent spasms, his throat closed around his screams; a low whine of pain pushed its self free. Potter looked down at the ruined book, blinking with slow lethargic movements. Tom forced himself to keep moving with strength born of deep-rooted fear.

“Don’t…” He chocked around the word and swayed on his feet. Tom stumbled over his next step, crumbling to the ground. Dimly, he watched Potter lift the fang, slam the diary shut and stab it again.

Pain raked his body, clawing through his veins in agonizing waves. Hot acidic pain had replaced his blood and with each passing minute, he felt himself grow closer to death. White noise roared in his ears and tiny pin-pricks of blinding light overwhelmed his vision, robbing him of the only senses his limited form had. He clawed desperately at the stone floor in an attempt to pull his body closer to Potter. “ _Stop it!_ Just stop!” Another fit of tremors ripped through him; Tom’s back arched high off the ground.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, there was an echo of vague confusion and answering pain. It was oddly familiar but at the same time, very foreign; he felt as though he should know what –  _or who_ – that strange echo was. But at the moment he didn’t care. Blindly, he reached across his mind for it.

Tom didn’t want to die, not like this. He didn’t want to go alone. He latched onto the strange distant echo, wrapping it in his magic and clinging to it. Thin threads of the presence slid through his hold and reached deep into his core, sinking inwards. A sharp wave of agony tore through his body. More threads sank into him. As the threads merged with his fractured soul, the strangeness of the echo lessened. A much larger part of the echo thrashed in Tom’s grip, bucking wildly in a bid for freedom. Tom snarled and clung tighter. The joint pain reached an unbearable peak, causing him to lose sense of everything else.

For one brief wonderful moment, Tom felt nothing. There was no agony or fear or rage. It was perfect – peaceful even. Slowly, however, feeling returned to him. Numerous aches warred for his attention, though one by one they were lessening. He blinked. A blurry creature of vibrant reds and vivid copper and gold was bent over one of his arms doing… what, exactly? He blinked again, trying to sort through his thoughts but he couldn’t quite manage that. Everything hurt and he was so tired.

He slipped into a dreamless sleep, which didn’t last very long at all.

Someone was shaking him. He wanted to lash out at them, but his arms were heavy like lead and his magic barely twitched in response. Frustration curled in his gut, amplifying his annoyance until he could hardly breathe through the anger. He was exhausted; why couldn’t they just let him sleep? A thin high voice begging him to wake up barely managed to pierce the thick fog in his head.

“Oh please wake up;  _please,_ ” the voice begged. Agitated magic cackled around them in weak impulsive arcs. It was so young and out of control… nothing at all like the magic he was used to being around. Not even the first year Slytherins had such unrestrained magic. While actively using magic before a wizard’s core had stabilized was dangerous, not learning at least some measure of control was just as bad. All Pureblood families knew this, though the Blood Traitors seemed willing to ignore it. “Harry, wake up. You have to wake up!”

_What?_ His name wasn’t Harry; why would anyone…?

He forced his eyes open and immediately shut them against the sea of blurred reds. His head hurt – each intake of air triggering another harsh throb; he felt dizzy even lying down. Another harsh shake made a low whine slip from his throat. Tom tried to speak but his mouth felt like sandpaper, and his tongue wouldn’t work properly.

“E-en –” Tom managed to say, eventually. His eyes opened in slits to glare. There was something else wrong but he couldn’t quite remember what it was.

“Harry!” Girlish arms threw themselves around his neck; he grimaced, pushing the girl away with shaking arms. She chocked on a laughing sob and pulled back. “I was so scared. When I woke up, a phoenix was leaning over you crying. I had thought that –” She broke off with another round of tears. “But you hadn’t and – and I’m so sorry… This is all my fault!”

He blinked blandly. Slowly, he forced himself to sit up, ignoring the stabbing jolts of pain in his right arm and the lingering breathless ache in his chest. The boy gasped and coughed, wheezing. Sluggishly, the ache lessened; the dizziness faded. He breathed in deeply and let the annoying girl – Ginny – pull him to his feet.

“Where – where’s the phoenix?”

“It left to get one of the professors, I think.”

He nodded, weary. The rows of serpent statues seemed taller somehow, and now that his thoughts had cleared somewhat, Ginny’s behavior didn’t make the least bit of sense. He had attempted  _to kill_ her; she shouldn’t be willing to be anywhere near him. And she kept calling him Harry… He looked down at his hands and froze.

Tom had never been able to tan; he either burned to a humiliating bright red, or nothing happened at all. The hands he saw now were rather tanned, and lined with tiny silvery scars and wide calluses. They were also much smaller than they should have been. The fingers were shorter and not quite as tapered; the nails didn’t extend passed their beds and showed signs of being chewed. Dried blood caked them, cracking and flaking off with every movement.

Threads of panic coiled around his thoughts. Violently, he jerked himself away from Ginny, stumbling over his feet and collapsing back to the floor. He looked down at his robes. Stagnate water, flecks of blood, and grime covered the length of his school uniform. The right arm was completely saturated with blood, and the lower portion of the sleeve was badly torn. Tom lifted it. Beneath the fabric, he saw that his forearm had a large circular scar similar to an acid burn.

His blood pounded through his veins; his vision blurred further.

“Harry…?”

Tom looked up at her, eyes wide and uncomprehending. This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t. That stupid little boy had  _stabbed his diary with a basilisk fang_ ; there wasn’t any way he could survive that! But he had. Somehow he had, and now he was in Potter’s body… Tom was  _alive!_

He blinked, chocked back a relieved sob, and collapsed into a dead faint.

* * *

Thick dark leaves rustled overhead. Small patches of light danced on the gnarled, moss-covered roots he had hidden himself in. He kept himself perfectly still as he waited for some poor, unsuspecting creature to wonder too close to the dying tree so that he could claim its life force for himself. It was maddening to be reduced to this limited state. It was utterly infuriating. A small gust of wind blew through the area, stirring up dust and dead foliage. He did not blink; one needed eyes to do that and he had none.

He had no body, and was still too weak to possess another wizard despite a year having passed since his last attempt. He had been so close to reaching his goal. So very, very close and  _yet!_ – that troublesome child had once again foiled his plans.

The spirit quivered with rage, and a few nearby leaves withered into dust. He was trapped in this pathetic form, cut off from the full might of his magic. Trapped with nothing but his quickly diminishing patience and his cunning to sustain him. He would persevere; he would return, stronger than before, and the Wizarding World would be his. His followers would be punished for their infidelity.

But for now, he could only wait…

* * *

Soft whispering slipped through the hazy veil of sleep, gently nudging him away from his fleeting dream and towards the waking world. In the dream, he had been in an unfamiliar forest, waiting for something. But what? What had he been waiting for? He had known in the dream but now, as he awoke further, that understanding unraveled and slipped from his grasp. A resigned sort of frustration settled in him.

He sighed quietly, and then turned his attention to his surroundings. The air smelled faintly of cleaning solutions and medicines. Thick, starched fabric rubbed uncomfortably against his bare arms and feet. Bright light turned the darkness behind his eyelids a dark orange, and the call of songbirds was muted by powerful sound-deafening charms. He was in Hogwarts’ Hospital Wing. The voices were still whispering near him and he turned his attention to them, trying to piece together any information he could gain.

“He needs to go to St. Mungo’s,” said one of the voices. It was a woman, and her tone was steeped in barely surpassed anger. “The amount of venom that entered his system was enormous! I don’t have the equipment to deal with it properly here.”

“Now, now. There’s no need for that. Fawkes has provided all the attention he needs.” The man sounded old and genial, but there was an undertone of agitation, of annoyance. There was something about the man’s voice… he had hear it somewhere before. He should know who this man was.

“All the atten – He was bitten by a basilisk!  _A basilisk,_ Albus!”

Albus? Did he know an Albus? He strained his mind and slowly, as though they were rising from a lake of molasses, memories came to him: a ginger-haired man in a velvet suit, the constant weight of a suspicious stare, a grandfatherly man telling him that he was too young to know yet. He frowned mentally. That last memory, he shouldn’t have it. So why did he?

Dimly, he was aware of the woman continuing her tirade as he tried to piece together the source of his new memories. “Despite their extraordinary healing prowess, phoenix tears cannot possibly be enough. No one knows what the effect of basilisk venom has on an adult’s magic, let alone a child’s…” The woman sighed heavily, and he heard the rustling of a robe.

“Well, yes but–”

“But nothing!”

“Madam,” Albus finally said after a long pause, “I understand your concern but Harry will not be going to St. Mungo’s. It is simply too dangerous for him.” An unspoken threat echoed under his words.

Harry, another name – another  _person_ – he should know. Harry, who had encountered a basilisk and lived, healed by Fawkes who was… who was a phoenix. Fawkes, who was Albus Dumbledore’s phoenix, healed Harry Potter’s body, which now belonged to Tom Marvolo Riddle. He was Tom Riddle; he was Lord Voldemort.

“I, I understand,” she said. An awkward silence settled upon the room, heavy and oppressive. Eventually, Tom heard the gentle rustle of robes and tap of heels as the two parted. Dumbledore left the Hospital Wing. The Madame bustled around the room for a bit, undoubtedly checking other patients, before she retreated to her office.

Tom lay there, breathing as evenly as he could, for a long while as he picked apart the foreign memories in his head. When he had nearly fallen back asleep, the sharp click of boot heels of stone snapped him back into a tense state. The person drew closer until they were at his bedside, looming over him. He forced himself not to show any of his tension.

“Harry dear,” said the woman, “I know you’re awake.” She touched his shoulder.

Reluctantly, he slid his eyes open. He let an almost guiltily expression cross his face as he looked up at her. The woman was old with soft wrinkles at the corner of her eyes and laugh lines around her mouth. She smiled sadly and began flicking her wand, murmuring various diagnostic spells. She arrived at the end of his check-up and frowned.

“Madam…?” She jerked out of her musing and gave him a strained smile. Tom swallowed around the dead taste in his mouth and asked, “What’s wrong with me?”

“There is nothing wrong with you,” said the matron in a firm tone. “The venom from the basilisk and Fawkes’ tears have just altered your immune system a bit, is all.” Tom blinked, letting his eyes go wide with shock and worry. “It’s nothing to worry about, dear.” She gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder but wasn’t able to met his eyes when she said this.

The woman was lying.

Oh, the venom and the tears had probably done  _something_ to his body – they were too magical not to have – but that wasn’t what she had reacted to. He had recognized the last spell she had used; the  _Stability_ spell and its spell-tree all dealt with an individual’s magical core. Each wizard’s core was different from the next, but there were a number of common traits that could be used to gauge the health and power of a wizard. Tom knew that the chances of his core being anything like Potter’s were extremely slim. If she was willing to blame the venom and tears for the change, he certainly wasn’t going to stop her so long as she said nothing to Dumbledore about it.

Tom spent a few minutes staring at his hands, pretending to be in a state of shock while he dug furiously through Potter’s memories in search of the matron’s name. If he wanted to masquerade as the Gryffindor he needed to know how the boy acted around people but he hadn’t had enough time to really go through them yet. He’d spent most of the brief respite he had had running through Potter’s memories of the Chamber and the events leading up to it, since Dumbledore would never let him get away without having one of his  _talks_ .

Finally, he raised his gaze and gave the woman, Madame Pomfrey, a glum look. Sighing softly, she sat down in the chair beside his bed and summoned a large pot of tea, two teacups, sugar and milk. He watched in silence as she poured them both a cup, handing him one.

“Thank you,” Tom said. He added two teaspoons of sugar and a bit of milk to his tea without thinking. Pomfrey gave him a puzzled look. Ah, Potter must’ve taken his tea differently. While he could dig through the boy’s memories and solve the problem that way, Tom was notoriously picky about food – he rather thought that was the result of not having any choice at the orphanage – and he wasn’t willing to conform to the tastes of some stupid brat who was too weak to keep a soul splinter from possessing him.

And why did the woman even know how Potter took his tea anyway?

Pomfrey set her cup down, pulled herself up and gave him a stern look. “Harry,” she began, “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but you need to tell me what happened down in the Chamber of Secrets.” By the time she finished speaking, her expression had softened considerably. He hesitated, and flicked his eyes to meet hers before turning his gaze to his tea cup. Tom stared at the liquid in it, watching the light play across the surface.

“I-it was Ginny, only… not,” he said. “She had been possessed by the diary…” Tom let himself trail off, and snuck a look at the matron; she gazed sadly at him. Eyes wide, he snapped his head up, careful to mask the smugness he felt. “It wasn’t her fault! He’d been lying to her!” And dear Ginny had been fool enough to believe every word of it. Wicked amusement filled him; he bit the inside of his lip to keep back a wide smile. “He made – he made her –” Tom cut himself off and shuddered. The matron took his free hand into hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

He was about to start again when the Hospital Wing doors opened. Albus Dumbledore entered, followed by a greasy hook-nosed man and a woman who looked suspiciously like that annoying Gryffindor bitch who had been two years ahead of him. A quick jaunt through Potter’s memories confirmed that it was Minerva McGonagall, and provided a name for the man. While Tom knew exactly why Dumbledore and McGonagall were here, he couldn’t think of a reason for the Head of Slytherin to be present as well. Tom knew that none of the students involved in Ginny’s rescue were in Slytherin nor were any of the victims.

“Headmaster,” Pomfrey greeted in a chilly voice. She nodded at his two tagalongs; they nodded back, though the man’s was more of a pronounced twitch than a nod.

“Good morning, Madam! We just stopped by to see how young Harry was doing,” he said. His blue eyes twinkled brightly, and Tom felt the familiar urge to forcibly remove them, turn them into marbles and make the senile old man choke on them. Dumbledore did owe him a set, after all, plus interest too. Instead he took another sip of tea.

“So far there have been no complications, but he still needs bed rest.” Professor Snape snorted. “Do you have a problem with my methods, Severus?” she asked.

“I sincerely doubt bed rest will be able to sufficiently cure Mr. Potter of his chronic inflictions,” said the professor with a sneer. “The inability to follow simple rules is a problem he will likely have for the rest of his life.”

“Severus!” the matron exclaimed while McGonagall gave the man a thin, disapproving look.

“I merely state the truth.”

Dumbledore cut in before Snape’s tetchy nature could irritate the women further. “Be as it may, young Harry seems well enough to answer a few questions.” He clapped his hands together and smiled in a genial manner.

Pomfrey stood, frowning. “The boy just woke up, Albus, he hasn’t had any time to – to really  _process_ what happened down in the chamber.”

What an odd emphasis, and what an odd thing to be worried about. From what he could tell from Potter’s memories, the brat had got himself involved in more than his fair share of life-or-death situations. Did they think that Tom had done something especially horrid? What could he have done anyway, with such a limited form? He pulled himself out of his thought just in time to catch the dark grimaces on the professors’ faces and the unusually serious look on Dumbledore’s. So they did… but what was it that they thought Tom had done to the Boy Wonder?

“I find,” said Dumbledore, “that the first opportunity after such events is often the best time to talk about them.” Scowling fiercely, the matron backed down.

Tom didn’t bother to hide his confusion as he looked between the three, hoping to catch some sort of clue about what was going on. His knuckles went white as he clutched the teacup, watching with a growing sense of unease as McGonagall and Pomfrey left with great reluctance. In their wake, Dumbledore and Snape settled into chairs around him. Strangely, they left a lot of space between the two of them and Tom. Even if the Headmaster leaned across the divide with his arm fully extended, the tips of the man’s fingers would barely be able to brush against Tom’s arm. Snape kept his expression rather blank, which seemed to be the norm, and so did Dumbledore, which was most definitely  _not_ .

“What happened?” he finally asked. “How did we get out of the Chamber? Is Ginny okay?” Tom sincerely hoped she wasn’t but he wouldn’t let them know that. The two older men stayed silent. He flicked his eyes between them, wondering. Their behavior was strange and didn’t mesh with how Potter remembered them acting. Tom shifted nervously. They – they didn’t  _know_ that he wasn’t Potter, did they? He was sure that he hadn’t done anything too out of character but… “What’s going on?  _Why are you acting like this?_ ”

The distressed emoting did its job well. Dumbledore’s expression softened into his familiar façade of a concerned grandfather.

“Harry, we need you to tell us what happened.”

“Alright,” he agreed. Tom told them all that he could remember – from Potter’s point of view. He thought about withholding the details of his identity as Lord Voldemort, but in the end revealed that when he couldn’t think of any reason why he wouldn’t have rubbed it in the boy’s face. Dumbledore’s lack of reaction over that was rather annoying. Tom left out his little breakdown after Ginny had woken him, unsure how to phrase it as Potter would. “And – and that’s it…” he said, once he’d finished.

The Headmaster gave him a grave look before turning to Professor Snape. They spent a few minute in silent communication, before Professor Snape scowled fiercely, turned to Tom, and said, “Now is not the time to be lying or withholding information, Mr. Potter.” Tom straightened up in indignation and scowled right back.

“I’m not lying!”

“So you admit to not telling us everything?” Snape narrowed his eyes into a dark expression that would have cowed Tom if he was who they thought he was.

“I answered your questions, didn’t I? I told you what happened,  _didn’t I_ ?” sneered Tom.

“Then perhaps,” said Dumbledore, “you could tell us why Miss Weasley is under the impression that you had a rather strong reaction in the Chamber, after she had woken you?”

Tom looked at him, felt an angry and embarrassed blush color his face, and dropped his gaze to his now empty teacup. “Oh,” he said dully, “that.” He wasn’t sure how to pass that off. Gryffindors usually didn’t have much of a self-preservation instinct and his… episode had been born entirely of that instinct. But then, Potter was twelve, wasn’t he? And what twelve-year-old could face dying without feeling fear? “I – I – when the basilisk’s fang had – I thought that I was going to die…”

He chanced a look at the professors. Snape, to his surprise, looked almost concerned though he hid it behind a rather angry scowl; Tom wondered why. On the other hand, Dumbledore appeared utterly sympathetic but to the Slytherin’s trained eye, that was merely a cover for the frustration below it. Now that was interesting. Why would the old man need Potter to be comfortable with the idea of dying? It was definitely something to look into once he had more time.

For now, he just wanted them to leave. The stress of yesterday’s events on his magic and Potter’s body was quickly catching up with him, and he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes around Dumbledore. Tom opened his mouth, intending to ask them to let him rest, when the doors to the infirmary burst open to allow a short, red-haired woman into the room. The woman rushed up to him, ignoring the two men completely, and threw her arms around him. Startled, he sat there frozen.

“You saved her! You saved her!” the woman cried, with her face half buried in his hair and heaving great breaths, as though she was trying not to sob. “You saved my daughter!” Ah, so this was poor, little Ginny’s mother.

“Mrs. Weasley,” Tom started to say but was quickly cut off by Dumbledore.

“Molly, please, we still need to finish getting Harry’s version of the events,” he said. Reluctantly, Mrs. Weasley pulled back and attempted to sort Tom’s hair into some form of order. It didn’t work. “Now, Harry, we need you to tell us everything that happened –”

“I already told you,” he said.

Dumbledore heaved a great sigh and gave him another disappointed look. He’d already told them everything that Potter remembered; what was it that they wanted to hear? Biting his tongue to hold back a sneer, Tom stared right back being careful to mask his thoughts behind a chaotic mass of confusion and the occasional snippet of memory from the Chamber. It was a good thing that he did too, for not even a second after he met the Headmaster’s pale eyes, he felt the telltale pressure of someone attempting to look into his mind. It took a great deal of control – control Tom was surprised he had – not to violently attack Dumbledore’s presence, but he managed. He couldn’t afford for the old wizard to suspect that there was anything wrong with the Boy-Who-Lived anymore than he already did.

As soon as Dumbledore left his mind, Tom raised his hand to rub his forehead. Snape’s eyes briefly followed the movement before flicking away, with a gleam of barely perceivable rage in his eyes. He wondered what caused that, but quickly forgot all about it the moment his fingers brushed against the scar on his forehead. Painful jolts ran down his fingers and through his head. Before he could stop himself, he winced.

“Harry, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley, “what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing; just a headache.”

But it soon became very apparent that there  _was_ something wrong. Several minutes after he had pulled his hand away the pain continued, ebbing slightly before crashing back at full force like waves on the beach. It was nauseating. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the concerned voices around him, but they sounded so far away, muddled and distant.

Long boney fingers grabbed his chin and forced him to look up into black eyes. Tom blinked, and wondered why things were suddenly so out of focus. The fingers tightened their grip; Snape narrowed his eyes. He pulled back, lifted his wand, and began muttering spells. Madam Pomfrey –  _when did she get here?_ he wondered – quickly hurried to do the same. They continued this for a while, occasionally pausing to mumble to each other.

Tom felt his body begin to grow limp. He blinked a few more times and his head swayed a bit. He felt the teacup slip out of his hand; dimly, he heard the shatter of porcelain. Each blink was now longer and slower, and it took more and more effort to open his eyes again.

“Harry.” Tom forced himself to look up at Mrs. Weasley’s concerned face.

“I – I think I’m going to take a nap,” he said, with a slow nod. He wasted no time in doing just that.

* * *

Tom spent the rest of May in a sectioned off bed at the very back of the infirmary, alternating between sleeping fitfully and reading through the small selection of books he managed to beg off Madam Pomfrey. The books were mostly introductory texts to healing magic – which he’d admittedly had never really paid much attention to before – but there were a few different ones, five of which were the textbooks for the electives he and his year-mates would be starting next September. The Muggle Studies text was completely ignored. However, Tom made sure that the various students and staff members who stopped by the Hospital Wing saw him reading the other textbooks. If people thought he had already read through them, they wouldn’t put much thought into how much he knew about the subjects. It would be a small reprieve in the role Tom would be playing. Over the summer, he would have to think up a more sufficient way to explain his “sudden” understanding of things that had been beyond Potter’s grasp.

Madame Pomfrey had unknowingly made herself into quite the ally in Tom’s endeavors to continue to avoid the rest of the school. The matron had decreed that he was to do nothing more strenuous than eating meals after he had collapsed, and she had effectively banished Dumbledore from her domain. He had been fortunate enough to be awake to see that discussion; it would be a memory he would treasure for a long time. That incident, though, was incentive enough to do his best to remain in the woman’s favor. Madam Pomfrey had also kept any of Potter’s little friends from visiting him.

Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley were the two people that Tom was most worried about fooling. They had been friends with Potter for nearly two years now, and they knew most if not all of the boy’s idiosyncrasies and opinions. With Dumbledore, if he messed up something like that the professor would never know, but those two would know and likely wouldn’t forget the slip up.

Sighing, he turned a page of the Arithmancy text. Tom wanted a reason to continue avoiding them. Unfortunately, Madam Pomfrey had decided that he was well enough for the two Gryffindors to visit him that afternoon. It wasn’t something he was looking forward to, but he couldn’t refuse to see them. Not when he’d spent the past week in relative isolation, a thing that would drive most Gryffindors mad with boredom.

He sighed again, closed the book, and tossed it aside.

There was nothing to be done about it. Tom would have to see them and hope that the years spent trapped in a book with only words to communicate with hadn’t dampened his acting skills.

Tom didn’t have to wait long for the Gryffindors to arrive. Fifteen minutes after their last class of the day – Charms, supplied Potter’s memories – the two second years pushed open the Hospital Wing doors and hurried passed the rows of empty beds towards where he sat. Once they had reached his bedside they crowded around him, slightly out of breath and grinning happily. Tom forced himself not to sneer.

Granger’s bushy brown hair was frazzled beyond belief. Smears of dried ink dotted her hands; one long streak ran along the curve of a cheek, just under her eye. Her eyes were open wide, and she bounced on her heels in a jittery manner the bespoke of too much caffeine. The girl was a mess of too much work and not enough time. He wondered when the last time she’d paused her relentless pursuit of the library to take a few hours just for herself.

Ronald was the near splitting image of Bilius Weasley, a Gryffindor who had been three years behind Tom and refused to take “no” for an answer. They had despised each other and if Ronald was anything like his uncle, there would be problems. Or rather, there would be  _more_ problems than there was already going to be. Tom might eventually learn to forgive Granger for the unintended crime of being a Mudblood, but he could never forgive a Blood Traitor. There were few crimes worse than willfully abandoning your Wizarding heritage simply because it made a few people uncomfortable, in Tom’s opinion.

But he kept all of this off his face and smiled back at them.

“So, how are things?” he said. Ronald dropped his bag to collapse into a nearby chair. Tom winched slightly at the loud clanging of ink bottles – didn’t he realize the unbreakable charms on those probably didn’t work anymore? He’d had them for over two years. Frowning, Granger followed the red-haired boy’s example, though she set her bag down with much greater care.

“Well,” said Granger, after they had scooted their chairs closer to the bed. “We’ve just finished our exams and –”

“Wait, what? But Dumbledore said we didn’t have to take exams this year!” Ron’s cheeks went the same color as his hair when the other two turned the same incredulous stare on him. With an annoyed sigh, Granger leaned back into her chair to stare at the ceiling while Tom shook in head in barely hidden disgust.

“There’s no way the professors would let something like that fly,” said Tom in a flat voice.

“It’s true,” Granger agreed, still gazing at the ceiling. “Besides, what did you think all those tests, quizzes and extra homework assignments were for?”

“Um, well…” Grinning sheepishly, Ronald shrugged and ignored the girl’s exasperated huff. He nudged Tom with his elbow and grinned wider. “But lucky you, getting out of all that!” he said, as though he was congratulating him for winning an impressive prize. Tom laughed.

“Nah, I’ll probably have twice as much summer homework to make up for it.” He might even be able to use that to his advantage, too. Everyone knew that Harry Potter hated his relatives and that they felt the same. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to think that he’d find refuge from them in his schoolwork. And if that led to him discovering the joys of reading and knowledge… well, surely no one would think much of it? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time that something like that had happened.

Ronald’s mouth twisted into a dark grimace. “Ugh, homework.” He sounded so disgusted, as though he was talking about some repulsive creature or a horrible disease that Tom couldn’t help but snicker. Lips twitching, Granger lifted an ink stained hand to hide a growing smile. She shook her head and didn’t quite manage to muffle her giggles. The Slytherin in Gryffindor clothing grinned and then laughed with her. Ronald pouted at them before he too began laughing. Before long, Granger was clutching her stomach, Ronald was close to slipping out of his chair, and Tom was trying to keep his laughter from gaining a maniacal edge.

It seemed he had been worried for nothing.

Eventually, they managed to get themselves back under control. The trio talked for a few hours about meaningless things, content to avoid the ordeal of the last few weeks now that they were together again though Tom did find out how little Ginny Weasley was doing. (“She’s shaken up,” said Granger, “but I think she’ll be fine.”) Just before the dinner hour was to start, Madam Pomfrey began ushering the two visiting Gryffindors out of the Hospital Wing.

“But Madam,” Ronald began in a protesting tone.

“You should be happy I’ve let you visit him at all, Mr. Weasley!” Madam Pomfrey said. “Now hurry along or you will be late for dinner.” They picked up their bags, said goodbye to their friend, and walked down the rows of beds to the doors. They had just reached them when Granger gasped. She spun around on her heels, ducking under the matron’s arm to rush back.

“I can’t believe I forgot!” she cried when she reached Tom. “Harry, Professor Dumbledore told me to tell you that he wants you to visit him in his office once Madam Pomfrey’s released you from the infirmary.”

“Which won’t be until tomorrow at the earliest,” said Madam Pomfrey as she gazed sternly at him.

Tom hummed his agreement as he waved the second years out of the Hospital Wing. The matron spent a few minutes fussing over him, casting some basic diagnostic spells and muttering softly to herself. Once she was satisfied with the results of his check-up, she called a house-elf to bring him a light dinner. Madam Pomfrey returned to her office after extracting a promise that Tom wouldn’t get out of bed unless it was absolutely necessary and that he would call her if he needed anything. He had agreed readily. If he was going to face Dumbledore the next day, he wanted all the sleep he could get beforehand.

That night he dreamt. He dreamt of a tall, thin woman with too much neck, a large boy with a nasty grin, and an even larger, raging, red-faced man with nearly no neck at all. There was a small cupboard under the stairs where he sat in the dark, wishing for someone to come and take him away. He remembered long, exhausting days under a burning sun, pulling weed after weed until his hands were raw and trembling with fatigue. He dreamt of the sharp sting of a caning after he’d been caught doing magic and his hatred. The mocking sneers and frightened whispers of the other orphans echoed in his head. He dreamt and dreamt and dreamt…

When he woke up the next morning, he wasn’t sure if he was Tom Riddle, the heir of Slytherin, or Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived.

* * *

There were a number of reliable ways to deal with Slytherins, especially if they were predictable. You could exploit their drive for power or use their ambition against them. You could pander to their arrogance and self-importance, as Tom had once done whenever he needed something from Slughorn. Each had their uses, their strong points but those methods would take time. Time was something that Tom didn’t have at the moment. Fortunately there was another way that would take nearly no time at all, one he was rather talented at.

“Good evening,” he said to the man.

The man in question stopped dead in his tracks and snapped his head around to stare at the shadowed alcove the dark-haired boy had hidden himself in. Gray eyes widened before narrowing into enraged slits while the man’s jaw clenched unattractively.

“Mr. Potter,” Malfoy finally grounded out, “how wonderful it is to see that you are well.” He sounded very much like he wanted to change that as violently as possible. Dark magic coiled about them, pressing down on Tom with the heavy weight of unbridled fury.  _How… unMalfoyish,_ he thought in a dark inner grin. Abraxas would have never stood for such an indulgent display of emotion, although Tom could remember quite a few instances where Abraxas had lost his prized composure.

Slowly, Tom tilted his head as his smile gained a razor edge. “I wonder if you would, hmm, mind… indulging my curiosity for a bit?”

“Your curiosity?” Suspicion bled into Malfoy’s already dark expression. Tom closed his eyes and sighed.

“You see, Mr. Malfoy, I am having a bit to trouble figuring why you would take such a  _risk_ when it promises no reward.” The boy continued smiling.

“Speak clearly, boy,” said Malfoy. “I do not have time to play games.”

“Clearly you do.” His eyes snapped open. Malfoy jerked back with a flinch. Bottle-green eyes had been turned murky by a red glow that could only come from an abundant usage of, and a high aptitude for, the dark arts. “Now tell me, why are you being so careless? Did you think your Lord would be pleased with your actions?” The man said nothing. With carefully constructed disappointment, Tom looked away.

Silence reigned in the corridor. He let Malfoy edge nervously around him without comment. The Slytherin was nearly to the end of the corridor before he spoke again.

“Next time, when your Lord gives you something to protect, do as you are told.” Tom paused long enough to smile sweetly at Malfoy then quickly climbed the stairs to Dumbledore’s office.


End file.
